Kneel On My Arrival
by xnteax
Summary: AU. In the future, where biofuels and green lives exist, one of the resistors of the change, South Park, is currently experiencing eco-terrorism of a large degree. Kenny McCormick, journalist, goes back to his old hometown to find out for himself.
1. I'm Coming Home

The easiest part was driving into Colorado. The hardest part was locating the South Park biosphere. As he seemed to near his destination, the amount of snow hindering his path only increased, and he was sure, when he checked his map next, that half the signs on the road were buried underneath the drifts. When he'd initially accepted the job, he'd been sure that his eight year old memories could supply the directions to his old house. Now, when he looked back, most of his memories had been of dying.

One thing he hadn't forgotten, however, was how damn cold the place was. Each house he passed as he advanced towards the gate that separated the small town off from the rest was topped with snow, the pavements covered in brown slush from the numerous passers-by. It would almost have been picturesque if it weren't for the fact that the silence had intermittent breaks of arguments. The words were indecipherable, but the message was clear enough, and the more he went deeper into his old territory, the more the feeling of animosity grew towards him increased.

When he was eight, he had been in one of the poorest families of South Park, the sort who were rumoured, when they grew up, to start getting into drugs, or whatever new thing was on the market, a mixture of chemicals that could ransack the mind so thoroughly. The users became a gibbering mess, contributing nothing to society, except for filling the pockets of dealers. Then an unexpected windfall landed his way, in the form, as it often was, of a distant relation's will and when he was sixteen, he had caught the first bus out of the snowy hellhole, intent on climbing out of the poverty well.

The first place he'd ended up in?

New York.

What struck him about the capital city was how open it was. Even he, who had always had a tolerant view to most things, (for, after all, South Park wouldn't be itself without a strange happening each week,) hadn't realised how hemmed in he had been by the restrictions, and now, with a budding career as a journalist after pulling some strings, and a stable income flowing in every two months, could feel the difference between the two places. It wasn't physical; the feeling was intangible, but oppressive, and rolling down the window, he waved his pass at the soldiers standing on guard.

It started, mainly, with Kyle Broflovski.

Maybe his unholy love for technology as well.

But mainly Kyle Broflovski.

* * *

><p><em>This is an AU, and some facts may be wrong, due to the fact that one, I have not watched all of the episodes of South Park and am currently working my way through seasons, and the second is that I am not from the US, so the terminology may be confusing. There will be eventual slash and het pairings, and the final pairings are known, but have yet to fit in. Please tell me (politely) whether there is anything I need to correct.<em>


	2. Holding his breath

Kyle Broflovski, strictly speaking, should never have talked to him. They were in different circles at school, and when he had arrived in New York, bright eyed and fresh out a journalism college, Kenny had seen no reason why it shouldn't continue. He was as energetic and tenacious as he remembered, with a wiry body and sharp green eyes that caught on to everything and everyone. He latched onto his job like a limpet, and was the most consistent when writing articles about the spate of eco terrorism in several parts of the country. The perpetrator was unknown, and clearly had the national security on alert. Nobody seemed to know where they were, or where they had come from.

Except, perhaps, for one ginger haired writer.

He was prepared to dig into every area possible for a story, each sordid, uncomfortable area that resided underneath the city's glistening, light filled visage in order to get to the bottom of the attacks, and while he continued to feign little knowledge of the culprit, each detailed elaboration on the matter betrayed otherwise.

Kenny, on the other hand, was more freelance, and paid little attention to the articles, except to view them with passing interest, intrigued by how his fellow South Park worker was faring. He had adapted to the new laws rapidly, switching his former, gas consuming vehicle for a hybrid design, and walked, more often than not. Being poor up till his late teenage years had instilled in him a sense of caution, of saving each dollar, and he was fairly sure he could see off any attempt to mug him. The city was ever changing, and while there were still things which constantly managed to surprise him, he had almost become more prepared.

Nothing, however, managed to give him quite a large shock as when Broflovski had managed to end up in hospital.

"It wasn't even anything dramatic," the other had exclaimed when he decided to visit. "I just leapt into the middle of the rush hour and barely got away with it. I'd at least thought I would be attacked, or something. Not run over by traffic. That happens a lot."

"God forbid," Kenny stood next to him, looking at him with mock disapproval. "Anything Kyle Broflovski does is normal." He had looked pale, copper hair splayed over the white pillow, one leg suspended in the air, as if he had been in the middle of an interpretive dance, and was frozen. He grinned, a furtive, mild type as he shifted against the bed, twisting his body so he could look at his well wisher properly.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot that I was supposed to say hello first."

"I doubt any of the company you keep is going to smash your leg in with an iron bar." He winced, before a conspiratorial expression slid onto his face.

"No, but you could say that happened. That always gets the girls."

"I'd hate for them to romanticise you even more. You do realise that half your paperwork has landed on my desk?"

"It's not my fault my leg got broken by a car. The girls already view me as some sort of desperado?"

"Yes, much to nearly every sane person's despair. There is a thing known as looking both ways before you cross. Of course, looking at the traffic lights also helps. You know, if you've forgotten what they taught you in South Park elementary."

"I don't think I'd ever forget," he shuddered, eyes closed as he relived the experience. "Remember when Tweek drank too much caffeine and ended up twitching across the road?"

"Remember Craig?"

"The douche, oh God, yes," He threw him a considering look, and if he'd had the ability to cross his arms, Kenny was fairly sure he would have done so. "Weren't you close with him in high school?"

"Before I left? I was close with anybody who would give me a cigarette. Is he still as much of a prick?"

"He's mellowed, but don't let him hear me say that. He'd break half my bones, or re break them. He's a little less…exclusive." It was a little unreal, holding a conversation with a person who had barely talked to him since he was fourteen, and all the groups had started to split, but it was almost as if he was young again, watching as Kyle aggressed his younger brother, who by then was looking, or appearing even more precocious than his sibling concerning brains.

"Anybody else?"

"I don't know. Half of my contacts manage to lose their phones on a daily basis, and it costs an exorbitant amount to talk."

"Email?"

"Have you even seen my bills? Ever since the new laws kicked in, it's getting increasingly hard to send them, due to the energy, and even then, I'm sure we're being snooped at by the government."

"You're starting to sound like Cartman."

"I am not - !" the patient spluttered, before he noticed the tremble at the corner of the blonde's lips. "Weak, dude."

"It's good to know that some buttons can still be pushed. I take it he's still a bane?"

"He haunts my fucking existence. Every single day, there's some article about him embracing the new eco friendly things. It's a power issue, it must be, or he's just trying to severely annoy me. Paperwork wise, what did you get?"

"There was a form to ask for research in South Park." He tensed, an interesting action following the words, and although he was loath to use it, the investigative part of his mind decided to exercise its right for action.

"Why did you need it?" Unfortunately, or the reverse, depending on which side a person was on, Kyle was too influenced by painkillers to engage his own enquiring nature.

"There's some stuff that came up," he managed, the drugs kicking in. "In South Park, there's been some terrorising, mainly against the fuel companies up there. I thought it could be part of the whole thing. There's evidence that a lot of it that stems from there. Clues left at other sites. In every instance, there's something that's left there that seems like it's related, for instance, there was one in Maine. Somebody left a woolly hat, and while I know it seems really insignificant, there are items from my past appearing. You know that Peruvian flute band in elementary? Or that time when I managed to win something? It's all there. Each thing at each site."

"Isn't this you over exaggerating?"

"I doubt anybody plays the Peruvian flute which I had two hundred miles north, Kenny. It may sound weak, but I know there's just something to do with it."

"So if I went there, that picture I took of Bebe Stevens' boo-"

"Shut up. Yes, it probably would."

"I've been looking for that for ages. Can I take over for you? I promise I'll behave."

"Seeing as your primary motivation is to recover that picture, I highly doubt that. I'll put you in touch though, and sort things out. You'll be staying at my house if you do go, and if you mess things up, I will hobble down on my crutches and castrate you. I've been working on this for months."

"Agreed," he stood, dusting off his clothes, tucking his hands inside his pockets. He looked down at the recumbent body, smiling as the other drifted into dreams. "It was good to talk to you again." By that time, he had already mentally decided to take the next plane to Colorado.

After all, Kyle Broflovski was still a former friend, and he thought there must be some sort of responsibility to do with it.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for your input, and to ben4kevin and wenmonk. I'm sorry I can't disclose the pairings, but there is some method behind it.<em>


	3. Friends were so different

House after house passed the vehicle as it drove past, each one almost identical, apart from the different colours. Kyle's address was jammed in the compartment below the radio, tucked between a large collection of CDs. It was crumpled, and stained with some liquid; he wasn't sure what it was, but it smelt caffeinated, and he inhaled the odour as he scanned the familiar writing, a messy scrawl done under the influence of medication.

It stood out on the yellowing paper, and he frowned, trying to remember where it was located. On the back, Kyle had drawn a map, but it was one which could only have been written by somebody under an intoxicating influence, namely painkillers and looked more like abstract art than a readable map. In vain, he drove through road by road, noting with some interest that there were a few solar panels scattered around. They glinted in the weak sunlight, and, he thought, would be practically useless in the winter.

The fuel was running low, and he made a reminder to refill it once he had located the dwelling. His counterpart had rung ahead, and, due to some feat of persuasion, managed to negotiate a payment system that involved directing the amount in his account from his bedside towards the landlord.

"Hey," he called to the nearest passerby, who looked disturbingly familiar, hunched and cocooned in a fleece that looked to be on its last stint of functioning as warmth. "Can you tell me where I can go to get to this place?" In reply, the head jerked up, as a blue eyed gaze appraised him, coaxing their head out to gesture for the paper as they walked across.

"That place?" he blinked, and he tilted his face downwards to talk to the other, a young man around the same age, with startlingly memorable features. "It's a dump, man. Give me a ride, and I'll show you." He was already half in the car before he had nodded his assent, and the blonde was left with the impression that he was more used to giving orders rather than waiting for agreement. The hat, which the stranger had worn on his head was removed to reveal unkempt black hair, and clarified his identity almost immediately.

"Kenny McCormick," he muttered, holding out a hand. "Who said you could come in?" When he stole another look, the other's expression mirrored his own feelings.

"Dude, no way. Stan Marsh, though you er, probably don't remember me," he grabbed on hand shaking it with unnerving intensity. "I knew you in elementary!" Stan's posture had loosened, somewhat, and he wondered what had placed the tension there. He seemed to be carefully controlled energy, waiting for an opportune time to be unleashed, and the visitor's arm seemed to be the recipient. "We were like best friends!" They then proceeded to lapse into a silence only two people who hadn't spoken regularly in over a decade would, before Kenny cleared it, handing over the address.

"Is that Kyle's apartment?" the companion jerked up suddenly, a wide smile still intact. "Sorry, I spaced out there, yeah, Kyle lives there. It's, frankly, a shithole, but it was the furthest away from his mom he could get, you know, in South Park."

"Why are you still here?" He squinted through the frantically swiping wipers in front of them, tapping the glass.

"Have you ever thought of getting that fixed?"

"Dude, you're evading the question."

"There's no particular intrigue, really. I'm here on my break. I've got one last year for college, and then I'm going. I started a little late. Seriously, you need to fix that," They watched as they crashed down, obscuring the path from sight. "Seriously unhealthy." There was something slightly odd about him, as if he was shuttered to the world, and there was something about the smile that didn't seem completely right.

Maybe South Parkwas finally getting to him. Kenny wouldn't be sure, but eventually, there was enough madness for it to get to anybody who spent prolonged amounts of time anywhere else, only to return. It was starting to seep into him, something welcoming, but not sorely missed. He nudged Stan, who had started to look even more dazed.

"I know it's a surprise, coming to see my wonderful face around, but you should snap out of it." The response he got was a small, wry grin that looked so utterly like Stan, and so out of place that he had to blink before returning his vision to the snow covered road.

Stan Marsh was a person who he had been pretty close with when they were ten, and, like Kyle, had distanced himself from during the later years of school. Then again, everybody seemed to at one point, when cynicism had kicked in and he gave short, biting remarks that alienated him from the rest of the year. In high school, he had, predictably, become a celebrated sports player, and Kenny's memories of him were of a fairly well built, bulky football player, who was perpetually adored by the rest of the school to the point of nausea. There had been nothing special, just another jock in a line of them, who happened to date the budding activist, Wendy Testaburger.

At some unknown point, he had decided to trade in pure muscle for something else, a lean frame that was emphasised by the way he sprawled indolently in the seat, arms folded and legs spread, not slender, and not scrawny, but enough to make a difference in his appearance. His trademark hat lay in the side pocket, and if he caught Kenny staring, there was no reaction, merely an indication to turn left. They pulled up by the apartment, and it suddenly dawned on him that Stan had probably been watching him too, in a non-creepy way. They stood next to the engine, breath condensing in the air.

"This place really is a tip," he commented, going back inside to take the keys from the same area. It fit in the lock with ease, and swinging open, it revealed the inside, a small pair of rooms, while to the right was a kitchenette, barely used.

"He doesn't come home often," Stan quipped behind him, ducking in to run a finger against the counter top. It came away with accumulated molecules of dirt. "Normally I'm the one who has to cook when he comes back, otherwise he's too tired to care."

"Do you come with the apartment?"

"Do you wish that was true?"

"I'm not in any want of a maid."

"I practically am the live-in when he's away."

"Oh God," he slumped onto the ground, stifling a mock grunt. "You two are like, a package deal or whatever. Save us from the curse of the super bests." He probably deserved the punch on his shoulder as Stan slid beside him, one hand patting him awkwardly on the back.

"It's not too bad, you get free breakfast."

"Is lunch part of it?"

"I think you're taking your help a little too lightly." They exchanged a look of amusement, before Stan straightened up, moving boxes aside to make way for their walk. Cardboard was everywhere, taped and closed in a blatant sign of privacy.

"What's the deal? Do I have to do anything, or is this free?"  
>"Weren't you listening?"<p>

"Honestly?" he laughed, a small sound that echoed in the silent room. "I was thinking about Bebe Stevens at that moment."

"You remember South Park, and the first thing you think of is her?" his acquaintance was incredulous at the thought.

"Well, it's better than thinking about dying, isn't it?"

Stan was silent for a moment as he studied the statement, before nodding, brushing past him with determination.

"You have any stuff?"

He was closed again, almost similar to his former behaviour, and Kenny adjusted his coat, glancing at the rooms before following him. The rest of the unloading was done quietly.

* * *

><p><em>ben4kevin, thanks for leaving a review. The plot will start soon, the main characters have to be introduced, and there are a few more.<em>


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